


Touché

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:29:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whenever Greg forgets his umbrella, Mycroft turns up. Coincidence? Probably not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touché

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Туше́](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2198997) by [sweatergod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweatergod/pseuds/sweatergod)



It’s not that Greg hates rainy days—they’re perfectly fine when he’s tucked up in bed with a good book, or curled up on the sofa with a decent movie or game to watch. He doesn’t even mind that the dreary grey serves as an obvious reminder of his own rapidly greying head of hair. He does, however, harbour very strong, negative feelings when he’s caught outside without any protection against the rain, save for his mac. And he only has himself to blame.

Greg’s trousers are soaked, hair sticks to his forehead, and he reckons he looks like a right mess, while Mycroft bloody Holmes stands on the other side of the tape, all dry and proper, looking as put together as he did on their first meeting that fine, autumn afternoon. The same black car idles by the kerb behind him. The only difference this time is the well-fitting navy, woollen overcoat and the black, leather gloves snug on Mycroft’s hands. Greg prefers the version without—although the extra layers prove that even Mycroft is not invincible against the forces of nature, it’s another additional layer of armour between the rest of the world and the enigmatic man beneath it all. Greg’s gaze reaches the hand that firmly holds the umbrella upright. With a miserable glance at his own cold, bare hands, he mourns his own pair of leather gloves for the nth time since he left the office this afternoon. Honestly, who manages to forget a pair of gloves in the office on a day when it’s barely ten degrees and plothering down? More importantly, who forgets to bring an umbrella on a day where dark, grey clouds threaten to open up on London at the most inopportune time? Obviously not someone as organised as Mycroft, Greg thinks with a sigh.

He wipes his hands down the sides of his coat—it doesn’t help much; Gore-Tex finish is made to deflect water, not to absorb it—and then brings them up to his mouth, breathing puffs of warm air into his cupped hands in a poor attempt to warm them up. Mycroft is still standing there, waiting patiently, observing silently, not making any motion to cross the tape. At least this Holmes brother has some respect for crime scene etiquette. Greg crosses the distance to Mycroft and ducks under the tape so he’s standing opposite, hoping he looks more confident than he feels. Mycroft nods in greeting, tilting his umbrella to the side. With a smile, he shuffles closer, grateful for the shelter willingly provided.  

“Sorry, if you’re looking for Sherlock, he ran off a few moments ago,” Greg offers, in lieu of a greeting. “But he’s doing a good job of keeping clean so far, or else I wouldn’t have let him take a look.”

“Thank you, Inspector. However, I am not here to see Sherlock.” Greg’s eyes widen and his lips part slightly, yet he remains silent. Mycroft clears his throat and continues speaking. “I don’t believe I can offer enough thanks for what you have done for Sherlock.”

“I don’t need thanks,” he replies simply. “It’s for him just as much as it is for me. I don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself if he just wasted away when I could have done something.”

“I see.”

Before Mycroft can say anything else, Greg points up and with a teasing lilt, adds, “The umbrella is thanks enough for me, though. Surprised it’s not actually a secret weapon, actually… or is it?”

Mycroft expels a gentle huff of air, and he allows a Greg a small, private smile. “If I were to answer that, then it would no longer be secret.”

Greg throws back his head and laughs. “Touché.” If there’s one thing that has brightened his day, it’s Mycroft’s smile, and what a surprise and a pleasure it is to witness the man lowering his defences enough to joke with him too.

Their shoulders brush together, and Greg is suddenly hit with the awareness of their sheer proximity. He looks down at the ground, watching as the rain splashes down on the gravel and dirt, forming puddles around his sodden shoes. He’s clearly in Mycroft’s personal space, he clearly doesn’t belong there, yet Mycroft isn’t pushing him away. It’s a strange feeling.  

“Look, I… I should be getting back.”

“Wait, Inspector—”

“You can call me Greg, you know.”

“Gregory?” Mycroft negotiates.

“If you must,” concedes Greg.

“If you would just give me a moment…” He takes the few steps to the car and raps on the driver’s window. Greg follows beside him. An anonymous hand—Greg can’t quite catch the face—passes a foldable umbrella through a ten centimetre gap in the window to Mycroft. “I hope you finish up quickly.”

Dumbfounded, Greg mumbles his gratitude as the umbrella is pushed into his hand, and remains standing by the kerb several minutes after the car has pulled away.

Surely Mycroft hadn’t come for the sole purpose of keeping a DI out of the rain, had he?

 

* * *

 

Several months later, Greg suspects that’s exactly what Mycroft came to do, or comes to do, rather, if the repeat occurrences are anything to go by. Today’s instance, as well.   

“Good afternoon, Gregory.”

“Since you’re here, I suppose it’s about time for the heavens to unleash their watery fury, is it?” Greg scoots over to make space on the park bench for Mycroft. He’s halfway through his sandwich, and his coffee rests on the ground by his feet. He should have known better than to eat his lunch outside on a dreary day, but he doesn’t want to stay in the office, surrounded by mounds of paperwork, for any longer than possible if he can help it. And perhaps some other reason, which he is less than proud of, but all too helpless to resist against…

“Very dramatic,” Mycroft remarks, occupying the seat.

“Only learnt it from the two most dramatic people the world will ever know.” As expected, large drops of rain begin to fall, and Mycroft wastes no time in opening his umbrella over them.

“So you can predict the weather as well at the traffic now, too?”

“A minor position in the British government, Gregory.”

“I’m sure.” Greg smiles around the last bites of his sandwich. “You’re on your lunch break, then?”

“I had a couple of minutes to spare,” Mycroft explains. A cursory glance at his pocket watch, however, indicates that his spare minutes are coming to an end. “Unfortunately, I have a meeting to attend very soon.”

During moments like these, Greg wonders what else Mycroft keeps in his coat pockets, because he has just produced a foldable umbrella from one of them. This one is smaller than the first; it has to be, to fit comfortably in Mycroft’s coat pocket.

“Do take care not to get wet on your way back to the Yard.”

 “You need to stop giving me umbrellas,” Greg chuckles, but accepts the gift anyway.

“And you need to stop forgetting your umbrellas,” Mycroft rejoins.  

“Touché.” As Mycroft turns to leave, Greg calls out to him. “Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks. For this and the… company.”

“You are most welcome.”

The smile that crosses Mycroft’s face is definitely worth the risk of leaving one’s umbrella on a day with a rainy forecast.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t know how you do it, but your timing is perfect. Always.”

In an instant, Greg is out of the rain and under the umbrella. He no longer questions Mycroft’s uncanny ability to show up whenever it’s raining and he’s out without an umbrella, which is often. In fact, it’s something he looks forward to, encourages, even… and has been doing so for a while, now. A year and fifteen umbrellas dispersed among his office and house, to be exact.    

Mycroft quirks a smile and proffers him a steaming cup.

“And coffee too?” Greg wraps his hands around the cup and breathes in deeply, taking in the smell of the coffee, the rain, and the subtle scent of Mycroft’s cologne, which he has learnt to identify. “A lifesaver, you are.”

“I thought you might need it.”

“Yeah, it was a stressful afternoon chasing after Sherlock. Thank goodness I’m just about to go home.” He looks up from his cup and casts his gaze over Mycroft’s person, spotting an umbrella handle jutting out from his coat pocket. “Another umbrella for me too, I see.”

“Only because you constantly forget yours,” chides Mycroft, gently.

“Only because it’s the only way you’ll ever come to see me.” The words slip out before Greg can stop them, and his eyes widen in horror upon the realisation. Suddenly his coffee seems very, very interesting.

“I thought you would never admit to that.”             

The speed with which Greg lifts his head almost gives him whiplash. Mycroft is looking at him, eyes twinkling merrily.  

“Hang on, I was making a complete fool of myself and you _knew?_ Why did you keep coming, then?”

“For the same reason you insisted on keeping up such a farce, of course.”

“Touché,” Greg murmurs, still taking everything in.

“And I assure you, your sentiments were most endearing and welcome, not foolish.”

“If that’s the case then, oh bloody hell, I was a right idiot. I’m done with all this sneaky business. Come over and join me for dinner?”

Greg couldn’t care less if today was one of those dreary, rainy days, because nothing, _nothing,_ could diminish the brilliance of Mycroft’s smile and the way it makes him walk on air.

“Gregory, I would like that very much.”

 


End file.
